Hair of the Dog
by Bastille Kain
Summary: Kela, a fifteen year old Japanese potential, great granddaughter of Nathan Algren, has embarked on a quest to track down the men responsible for the death of her great grandfather.
1. Chap 1: If I Go Away

Author: Bastille Kain

Title: Hair of the Dog

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters of Buffy, Angel, and any other show that are unfortunate enough to be used here belong to other people. I'd list them all, but except for the fact they're not me I honestly don't know who any of them are.

Spoilers: My Standard BtVS/AtS/HL crossover with some new PotC/TEL elements thrown in for a change of pace. Set in the Buffyverse, and takes place during season seven of Buffy, and might… Probably get down to Sunnydale. Just going to take a while before any interactions with any main Buffy characters. Please be patient and bare with me.

Summary: Kela, a fifteen year old Japanese potential, great granddaughter of Nathan Algren, has embarked on a quest to track down the men responsible for the death of her great grandfather. The Watcher Council. Unfortunately she is on the wrong trail. Also Nathan has a difficult time staying dead and is desperately trying to catch up with his wayward grandchild.

Pairings: Story takes place during season seven of Buffy, so I guess there'll be the standard pairings. Then again, maybe not? I'll see where the story takes me.

Rating: FR15

Feedback: Is always appreciated.

Email: Kain6639yahoo com

Archive: If you like it that much, sure. Just be sure to let me know where it's going, and give me the credit, good or bad, for my work.

Special Note: Aside from what I've seen in cheaply made martial arts movies, I don't know anything about Japanese culture, educational system, or as I said... Anything. If I made a mistake somewhere it was unintentional, so please don't show up pounding on my door demanding that honor must be satisfied. Enjoy the story for what it is, the deranged inner workings of my mind. There's no telling how long the drugs will keep me lucid.

Musical Notes: "Hair of the Dog" is performed by Nazareth. "If I go Away" is preformed by Savatage. Lyrics can be found at sing365 com

* * *

Hair of the Dog

Chapter One: If I Go Away

Kela knelt somberly beside the mound of freshly turned earth. It was the only such mound in the village. His customs were so different from theirs, but he had brought much honor to their village since he first arrived so many years ago. To give him a traditional Christian burial was the least that could be done for him.

The small knell was covered with wildflowers. Her great grandfather spent many hours on this hilltop meditating. Kela thought he would like spending the rest of eternity here. It was a good spot.

People that visited the village often mistook Kela for a boy. She had forgone the traditional dress of a young woman and like now always dressed as a warrior. Her waist length black hair was pulled into a warrior's top knot. The few outsiders that have ever seen her up close saw beyond the clothes to see the beautiful girl hidden beneath them.

At the head the grave was his katana, driven deep into the ground. Despite the length of life Nathan had never fathered any children, since he had no descendents of his blood the sword would remain his, forever.

Taka, his only wife, had passed away seventy five years ago and he had never remarried even though many women sought him.

He did however consider Taka's children to be his own and their children his grandchildren, and so on and so forth.

Right down to Kela.

The youngest of four children, the only girl, her great grandfather had known she was special and began her training when she was only four, much to her parents chagrin. They didn't have much of a chance to talk him out of it. He had been a village elder for more years then all but the eldest could recall, and personal friend of both the previous Emperors.

Kela didn't understand how he could be a village elder when he looked younger then her parents; who also called him great grandfather.

She hadn't understood then and still didn't now, but when she was training and the leather wrapped hilt of her sword was clasped tightly in her hands, the world just fell away. There was nothing but the sword, herself, and her opponent.

In a few weeks she could defeat all three of her brothers. By the end of three months she could beat all three at once. The only person she still couldn't defeat, had never been able to defeat, was her great grandfather.

Now she never would have the chance.

Kela rose to her feet somberly. She lifted her family katana. The sword has been passed down from one generation to the next for as long as her family has existed. A thousand years and more.

"I'll find those responsible for this," she whispered solemnly. "They'll regret ever coming here," she vowed. She would track these Watchers down; if they didn't tell her what she wanted to know she would make them.

Kela turned on her heel, as crisp as any military pivot, and strode down the small hill at measured pace. She felt like she was rushing down the hill, but she also felt like she was dragging her feet. As if she weren't doing everything she could to avenge all those that had been killed tonight.

It was a stupid way to feel and Kela knew that. She knew that vengeance wasn't going to be obtained overnight; that it was going to be a long, arduous journey. Having her great grandfather at her side would have been a comfort, but she knew he wasn't going to simply appear at her side because she wished it.

This was her time to prove herself as a warrior, that great grandfather had been right about her. Thoughts like those told Kela that perhaps she wasn't yet the warrior she hoped to be.

She would be one day.

She would make great grandfather proud.

* * *

There was a slight chill in the air as Kela woke up reminding her that while winter was finally over it would return in the not so distant future. She yawned tiredly. Yesterday had been a very hard day and Master Algren didn't take it easy on her because she was his Great granddaughter.

He treated her the same as every one else.

Kela yawned again, stretching out her limbs, and stopped. There was a foul taste in the air. It filled her mouth and nostrils, making her want to empty her stomach.

She had never experienced anything like it before. It felt like it was getting worse.

Coming closer.

Rolling off her sleeping pallet Kela came up in a crouch. She could feel something evil close to her.

Her swords were on the other side of her pallet. She cursed herself silently as she slipped over the bedding and snatched them from their stand then rolled back across her bed.

She waited; crouched low, tense but completely at ease. A coiled spring waiting to be released.

The sharp clang of steel striking steel rang out from nearby. She held her ground for a moment. In that half second a brown robed figure burst through the inside wall. He held a wickedly curved dagger in each hand.

That didn't faze Kela. She had been facing razor sharp steel since she was ten years old. What did cause her pause was when she saw into his cowl. His eyes and mouth were sewn shut with arcane symbols carved into his flesh.

A second, then a third appeared behind the first. In a heartbeat the first man was upon her. It was all Kela could do to keep his blades from reaching her flesh as she deflected one stroke after another.

Whatever the creature was it was nearly as skilled as she and only a heartbeat slower. With a flick of her wrist she discarded her katana's scabbard. She dispatched the first man, quickly, decapitating him. Another flick and she rid the wakizashi of its scabbard.

Just in time to meet the other two men as they came at her. She moved without thought; at one with her blades in her hands. They were an extension of her arms. At one with the floor, her entire room. Even at one with her enemies.

Steel struck steel as blades met. Her swords dealing out what injuries they could while keeping her from harm.

An eternity of seconds later and it was over. Both of the robed men were dead, impaled on her swords as she knelt between them right knee touching the ground. Her katana thrust through the heart of the one behind her, while her left hand extended forward; the small blade skewered the other man through his left side penetrating both his heart and lungs.

She pulled the blades from their bodies with indifferent viciousness as she rose smoothly to her feet. She padded silently across the floor on bare feet as the sounds of fighting rang throughout her home.

Pausing at her door Kela leaned back an instant before razor sharp steel punched through the screen. Her katana flashed in the early morning light ruining the man's throat. He fell back and she burst through the wooden partition, both blades slicing the empty air.

Kela listened for a moment then surged in the direction of the fighting. She slide into the intersection on her left hip as if she were stealing second base, the slicing knife went over her head as her katana severed his right leg just below the knee.

He fell to the ground as she sprang to her feet, the wakizashi taking him through his heart. Two more robed men came around the corner; blood glistened on the curved blades.

Without hesitation Kela rushed the two men. Her blades cut intricate patterns in the air as they met in a clash of flesh and steel. She carved the men open in a handful of seconds.

"Kela!"

The young girl heard her great grandfather shout her name. She spun dropping to one knee.

The world seemed to slow down as her American ancestor, her great grandfather, Nathan Algren, moved his body between her and the three brown robed men coming around the far corner. She didn't question how her great grandfather could be a white American that looked no older then her parents; it just was how it was.

She heard the sickening double thwack as a pair of curved daggers sunk into his chest. He staggered then straightened; gathering himself and charged. Both of his swords were covered in blood.

Kela followed him.

Steel struck steel, cut flesh as Algren made certain to keep their attention on him. He killed one, delivered deep wounds to the other two, but received several mortal wounds of his own. Not that they mattered, both knives were planted deep in his chest.

He dropped to his knees as his strength flowed from his body with his blood. The other two men fell to the ground and he smiled. He knew Kela would finish what he started, then collapsed to the floor.

Dieing didn't bother Algren, even if it had taken more then a century and a half for death to finally claim him. The light faded from his eyes quickly as all the tension left his body.

"Grandfather! Grandfather!" She cried fiercely as she shook him gently. He didn't stir and his body remained limp. "Grandfather," she whispered hanging her head.

* * *

Tokyo was a complete contrast to her village. A frantic pace compared to the tranquility she was use to. The citizens were rude, knocking her about as many made crass remarks about her clothes; simple country clothes that only mud footed villagers wore. Because of how she was dressed most people took Kela to be a boy a few years younger then her fifteen years.

Kela knew the comments for the insults they were, but ignored them since what most of the people said were true. While she might have grown up in a remote village she was two years ahead for her age, and maintained a four point two-one GPA.

If not for the events of this morning Kela had been planning on attending Tokyo University in another year; possibly an American, or even a European university once she graduated.

Computer Sciences was the field she excelled in. It was how she managed to track down a member of the Watcher Council to the American state of Washington, a town called Seacouver. It was beyond arrogance that they signed their email with their archaic crest. It would make tracking them easy.

Kela met Tokyo's open hostility with cold indifference. She asked her questions and received her answers as if they were of little importance to her. Her outward presence was enough to intimidate most of the people she questioned despite her apparent youth and lack of physical presence.

It was what led her to this rather disreputable place. It had no name. It was simply a back alley dive between two other back alley dives were anything went and the rules of modern society didn't apply.

This place reminded her of Ben Kenobi's most memorable line, "Mos Eisley spaceport. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious now." If it had been a spaceport and if there were aliens playing musical instruments in the back ground.

If she had been a few years older, if she possessed a passport then she wouldn't need to be sitting across from this English criminal. At first she thought he was American, but when he spoke it was with a rough cockney accent that she recognized from watching the BBC channel they received on their satellite dish.

His skin was the healthy color of a man who spent a good deal of his time in the sun. His pale brown hair was slicked back with a generous amount of gel and beams of golden sunlight were streaked throughout it. His side burns and goatee were dark black and meticulously trimmed. A wide brimmed hat, with a large white and green feather sewn into the band sat off to the side on the table between them. It was the sort of hat she thought a pirate might wear if they were back in that time.

The rest of his clothes were much the same even if they were made from the finest cuts of the most exquisite materials. White shirt that hung open to his chest with generous amounts of lace at the cuffs, a dark gray coat, dark blue pants with a blood red stripe down the outside seam, and black boots that shone with how much they've been polished.

Barbossa studied the hard eye, waif of a girl with interest. She was dressed in boy's clothes, but anybody that spent an instant in her presence and didn't know she was a girl was a stone blind fool. Like every Japanese person he has ever done business with she was as tight lipped as the rest of them. The only thing he knew was that she wanted to get to some sleepy little town on the Washington coast called Seacouver. And that she couldn't get there legal like, which brought her to him.

Reading people was like an art to him, one he was exceedingly good at. This girl was a warrior to the bone, reminded him a bit too much of the Samurai that used to proliferate this country.

He had the feeling he should cut his losses on this venture, only there was money to be made here. That and he really couldn't resist tweaking the nose of the American Government. They had gotten far too big for their britches since that revolutionary war of theirs.

The amnesty he and his fellow pirates had worked out in return for only sinking British merchants hadn't lasted much beyond the war itself.

"The price for passage to America, no questions asked, is a steep one lass," he informed her.

"I can pay your price," she replied.

Again he was surprised. Her English was perfect if spoken with a Midwestern accent. "Ten thousand dollars, American?"

"I can pay this."

Ten thousand dollars American was a pittance to Barbossa, but to a Japanese youth it was a king's ransom. He smiled pleasantly at her. "Well then, it seems we have ourselves an accord," he said as he reached out with his bejeweled right hand.

Kela stared at it a moment. She didn't like him, didn't trust him, but she didn't have any choice. She would have to siphon a portion of her trust fund. She took his hand; let him feel the hard calluses covering her palm, as she gave his hand a forceful squeeze. "So it would seem."

* * *

The morning sun was still hours away from cresting the horizon. Crickets along with a host of other insects covered the bare dirt mound. Dew covered the grass and saturated the ground.

A bloody hand punched through the loose packed soil. A second followed the first. They disappeared for a moment and then punched back through at the same instant tossing away chunks of earth allowing Nathan Algren to burst through the earth.

He gasped for breath as he pushed himself further out of the ground. His heart was pounding in his chest, he felt dizzy as he tried to collect his thoughts.

The last few minutes were fuzzy.

Those strange robed men; made his skin crawl like he was sleeping in a bed of squirming worms and maggots. They had been tough, faster then any man he had ever faced before, but they died just the same.

Remembered pain flashed through his head. Twin blades pierced his chest at almost the same second. He died, his heart stopped beating.

He looked down; his hands brushed dirt from his chest. There were no wounds and the only scars on his body had been there since his first battle with Katsumoto; when he killed Taka's husband, or longer.

Not even the wounds he suffered when he rode at Katsumoto's side had left a scar. He had gone to bed after his extended visit with Emperor Meiji and woke up more then a day later completely healed. Perhaps the maids who kept saying he had been dead hadn't been that far off.

But why?

Why was he allowed to live while so many others died?

"Kela?" He whispered.

Those men had been after her. He was sure of that. Those daggers were thrown at Kela's back. He had thrown himself in the way taking both daggers in his chest.

He pushed himself out of his grave knocking his katana over in his rush. For a confused moment he gazed at the sword before hefting its familiar weight. Unconcerned with the dirt covering his body Nathan rushed towards the house he had called home for the last hundred and twenty-seven years.

Kela was his utmost concern right now. She was still in danger and would need him to protect her.

All he needed to do was reach her in time.


	2. Chap 2: Modern Day Cowboy

Chapter Two: Modern Day Cowboy

The Louisiana air hung hot and heavy in the early morning darkness. A midsummer heat wave had struck several weeks earlier in the Bayou country. For two weeks straight the mercury has stretched into the low nineties. The heat alone wouldn't have been bad, but the sweltering humidity had a way of draining a person of their strength, their energy.

Night offered little relief.

At most the temperature dropped by no more than ten degrees. The humidity never wavered. It hovered slightly above saturated.

Any day the skies would burst and the rain would bring much-needed relief.

So people said.

The manor house was palatial in size. The tract of land it sat upon was vast, especially in comparison to the much smaller estates surrounding it.

It spoke of old money, older blood.

Deep inside the sprawling mansion, in a room that was bathed in moonlit shadows, soft words of love and passion, desire and contentment were being whispered between fervent kisses; rushed, heated touches.

In the dark everything was more intense.

"I can't believe…" Calloused fingers brushed back golden brown strands of silken hair.

Everything felt newer.

"I know…" The husky reply came.

It was all fresh.

"It's been so…" Slender fingers lightly graze sleek, tone flesh rippling with hardened muscles. "…Long."

"Long."

The two voices strained as one as they reached for each other. Clasped together, he slid above her, between her.

The door banged open with a resounding crash as it rebounded off the interior wall. "I've found him," an all too familiar voice, loud and boisterous, boomed into the shadowy darkness.

"Jack!" Will shouted emphatically at the man. "We're in the middle—"

The click of a light switch going up preceded the lights coming on by the slimmest margin. "Oh…" The simple sound took an exaggerated length of time to leave Jack Sparrow's mouth. "So you are." He dragged out those three words as he openly admired Elisabeth's well-crafted beauty.

With a cold glare at Sparrow, Elizabeth wrapped one of the thin silk sheets around herself. They had known each other a very long time. For herself, Elizabeth Swan Turner and her husband William Turner, their first meeting had been on the decks of the H.M.S. Dauntalis while the remnants of a merchant ship burned upon the calm sea. It had been another decade before they encountered the walking, talking conundrum that was, Captain Jack Sparrow. Along with Admiral James Norrington, they had known each other for more then three hundred years, almost three hundred and fifty years now.

She had grown up reading his exploits, listening to the exaggerated tales of his adventures, the suave swashbuckler that caused women to swoon simply by walking in the room, the daring robber baron whose enemies practically gave up as soon as he drew steel.

The truth behind the myth however was far less appealing.

The allure didn't shine as bright.

A certain brand of women found his coarse type of charm irresistible. Jack Sparrow won far more engagements than he lost and even when he did lose, he never really lost. His one good quality was that he didn't know he had lost. He simply refused to believe that he could be beaten.

Like now.

"So you are," he said again. Slower, lower. As if some hidden meaning could be discerned from the simple words.

"Get out," Elizabeth snarled.

Jack jerked his thumb back at the still open door as he said, "I should probably be going?" As if it were his own idea. "Let you get back to what you were doing." He pivoted on his heel, a simple maneuver that he turned into a larger-than-life production. "Barbossa can keep," he said as he pulled the door close behind him. His tone made it clear he was completely unconcerned about the information he had burst into their room to deliver just a minute past.

Will's pupils dilated at the sound of Barbossa's name. His blood felt frozen solid, as if it had been replaced with Arctic water. Beads of sweat broke out along his brow as an inferno raged in his gut. "Wha…"

Elizabeth grabbed Will's forearm; her slender fingers dug in with the tenacity of a beer trap; manicured nails drawing welts of blood as they pierced flesh.

Normally Elizabeth would never cause her beloved any injury, would suffer the gravest of wounds herself to ensure his safety. Time and time again. With the way he was now, she had little choice. Besides, the pair of them were made of sterner material then most. A little cut would hardly kill either of them.

The words might have been tossed away with a callous indifference, but Elizabeth knew Jack well enough after three hundred plus years to know his words were calculated to cause a specific reaction. As he normally did, Jack had chosen his words well. He knew the effect Barbossa's name had on Will and he used it with deliberate purpose.

She forced Will to look at her. Her eyes pleaded with him. Her expression begged him. "Wait. Think. Don't rush into this. A few hours won't make a wit of difference."

Will's expression wilted fractionally under Elizabeth's gaze. He reached out, his callused palms gently caressed her cheek, strong fingers brushed dark hair aside. He choked on his words, had to swallow them back down. "He's hurt you too many times."

In a soft voice, Will strained to hear Elizabeth words, "The only way Barbossa could ever hurt me, is if he were to kill you."

"Never going to happen," Will assured her. His thumb rubbed a gentle pattern along her temple.

She leaned into his touch. "It's almost happened more times then I care to count."

"Not this time." His hand slipped behind, cupping the back of her head. He pulled her to him as he leaned forward. He pressed his lips to hers forcefully. In that one moment he tried to convey all the passion he felt, all the love he had for her, all his hopes and dreams for their future together.

Elizabeth wasn't used to the roughness of the embrace, but quickly responded to the desire she felt. Deepening the kiss, she soon matched Will's erupting passion with her own.

Will pulled back slowly, his lungs starving for oxygen. He would gladly drown in her essence. He drew in a deep breath, filling his nostrils with her unique, dew covered, honey Mango scent. Even after all these years, she still smelt of Port Royal and the Caribbean. "I have to do this," he whispered into her ear. "Knowing Barbossa is out there, if I don't at least try to put an end to his evil." He stopped, taking a breath as he rested his forehead against her head. "I'd be as culpable as he for whatever villainy he is about."

He knew she wasn't happy and didn't need to see the red glint in her eyes to know just how furious she was at the moment. Nor did he need to see the clench of her jaw to know that she was nibbling delicately on the inside of her lip as she worked things around in her head.

They had been eight years old when they first met and he had watched her grow up, grew up alongside her. He knew her moods and her little eccentricities as well as he knew his way around a forge or the subtle intricacies of the sword.

"I've got to do this," he said again. He placed a quick kiss on her forehead. Pulling back, he bounced slightly as he got off the bed. "Where's he supposed to be?" He asked Jack as he padded across the rosewood floor to his armoire.

Jack cleared his throat from where he had been waiting, fidgeting with all the good grace he possessed. "From what my source tells me, Barbossa is bringing some Asian strumpet into Los Angeles." He answered with little of his usual posturing.

"Source," Elizabeth whispered harshly. Jack always had a source, throughout all the years, but never had any of them met his source. She wondered if it was the same source or if he cultivated them like a dog cultivated fleas.

Will finished pulling on his pants, a pair of study denim jeans. He grabbed a dark blue T-shirt as he twisted to face Jack. "We're going to Los Angeles?" His accent wasn't quite as thick as it used to be, but every now and then, usually when he felt hurried, it was more noticeable.

Jack leaned against the door, folding white silk covered arms across his chest pushing the edges of his black leather vest together. He cocked a booted heel against the oak door, his leather clad knee bent ever so slightly. "Way I hear it he plans on selling this sweet little morsel he has with him to the highest bidder. Plans on making himself a tidy profit on this here little overseas venture of his."

Will's head popped through the opening with a disgusted grunt. "Does Barbossa get more…" The creak of the bed brought Will to an abrupt halt as he shoved the hem of his t-shirt into the waistband of his pants. He twisted his head enough to glimpse the bed. "Elizabeth!"

The word jumped out of his mouth as his wife flounced out of their mammoth four-posted bed. The young seeming woman allowed the blanket to fall away. It was so thin it did a far better job of hinting at what it was suppose to cover then actually covering it.

Elizabeth had little concern about modesty. Besides, this was hardly the first time Jack Sparrow had seen her naked, and Will was her husband.

Jack openly admired the radiant beauty on display before him. At an age where most people were nothing more then dust and bones, buried in the earth, Elizabeth was, if possible, even more beautiful today then she had been the first time, he saw her. Then she had been a piece of exquisitely crafted finery tossed amongst a bleak shoal. Now she was the sun set in a sapphire necklace.

Jack pushed himself off the door, an admiring grin splitting his face. "Stairmaster's been getting…"

"Jack," Will shouted at the pirate.

"Right…"

"What are you?"

"If you think…" Elizabeth balanced on one leg as she began pulling on a pair of panties. "…for one minute…" she put one foot down and quickly slid the other in. "…that I am going to let you…" she jerked the underwear all the way up, somehow making that violent action seemed dainty. "...go traipsing…" turning on him, Elizabeth grabbed a white tank top from out of her drawer. Her full breast heaved from the exertion. "…all over creation…"

"Los Angeles only," Jack piped in. Elizabeth turned the full force of her glare on him. It rolled off his slick hide like water off a greased pig. "Swear it love. Quick jaunt… If Barbossa ain't there its right back here and you'll never even know dear William was gone."

"Jack," Will hissed.

"With him," Elizabeth seethed pointing an accusing finger at Jack Sparrow.

She knew she had gone too far once the words left her mouth. A brief flash of pain glinted in his dark eyes, there and gone, almost too fast to be seen. If she hadn't been looking right at him, she never would have seen the imperceptible flicker. Jack was extremely good at masking his feelings. He's had a long life to practice.

The statement was unfair to Jack. The pair of them, along with Norrington, were the only family he has left. The second crew he had hobbled together to retake the Black Pearl had been family as well, his and theirs for a time, but the long years had taken them, while the four of them remained perpetually young, unchanged down through the centuries.

"Jack, I am so sorry. I have no…"

"Quite alright love," Jack said waving off her clumsy apology. "We all know I'm hardly the most dependable person around."

The words were spoken with his normal, easy going lilt, but Elizabeth could still hear the slight tremble in his voice. "Nonsense. You have never let us down, not when it was important," she clarified.

"Elizabeth," Will's voice had taken on a pleading quality. "Will you please finish getting dressed?"

At her husband words, Elizabeth suddenly became aware of her nudity. She hardly batted an eye, but still pulled the tank top over her head and settled it around her torso.

Elizabeth almost found Wills prudish attitude about nudity amusing. By themselves, he was quite at ease, but if there was another woman in the room, her husband would have a blanket pulled up to his chin. The fact that he said anything because it was Jack just made it that much more comical.

"I should probably go," Jack said gesturing towards the door. He took half a step backwards while he continued saying, "let the two of you hash this out? Will, let me…"

"Hold it right there," Elizabeth ordered with a snarl. "You think you can come in here and drop this on us and then walk away?"

"Hadn't really thought about it," Jack answered. "Norrington's probably going to beat us to Los Angeles."

"You've already talked to Norrington?" Will asked, momentarily forgetting about the Elizabeth's states of undress.

"Said he'd meet us at that restaurant the two of you fancy whenever you're in the city," Jack explained.

"The Sky Temple?"

* * *

The clothes felt strange to Algren. It had been more then a hundred years since he had last worn the uniform he had been wearing when he arrived in Japan. They had been kept in immaculate condition, but were still an ill fit now; hanging loose on his shoulders, his belt needed to be cinched tighter.

He hardly believed how much weight he had lost over the years since Taka died, quietly and in her sleep on June eighteenth, Nineteen Twenty-Nine, he barely ate enough to sustain his life, yet he was still alive.

As much of a surprise as the fit of his clothes were to him, his first sight of Tokyo in more then eighty years left him feeling small and insignificant, it was beyond recognition. If not for the fact that everything he saw proclaimed the city as being Tokyo he would have questioned his sanity.

In his youth, a tall building had been a ten-story structure made of brick, stone, and mortar. Now glass and steel towered above him, surrounded him on every side, rose thousands of feet into the air.

Kela had shown him what a modern city looked like on that computer of hers. He had seen, but he hadn't believed. He had seen the occasional movie and the rare television show, but had written those images off as movie magic; something created for the effect it would have. Much like some of his favorite novels: Dickens classic, "Christmas Carol", Tolkien's, "Lord of The Ring", and C. S. Lewis', "Chronicles of Narnia". More recently Jordan's, "The Wheel of Time".

He thought the directors were simply constructing an image; in much the same way those great authors used words to craft their world's unbelievable scenery: cities of such scope and magnitude and painstaking detail, landscape so breathtaking, so real you could feel the loose stone crunch under your feet, taste the dew in the morning, breathe the frost in the heart of winter, gaze in wonder at beautiful sunsets; characters that came alive in front of you, that just leapt off the pages at you.

Now his beliefs were being shattered.

If not for the fact he was so focused on finding Kela he would have been gawking at the city like a raw recruit in a whorehouse for the first time. As it was, he could barely contain his racing heart, the claustrophobic rush threatening to shove him over the edge.

It had been more than a hundred years since he's had a taste of liquor, but Algren knows a strong scotch would surely settle his nerves right about now. Only the last time he had lived his life out of a bottle he had been attempting to numb himself to the horrors he witnessed, he committed, while serving in the United States Calvary. He didn't want to risk returning to what he had been. Not when it had taken so much to pull himself out of the abyss he had lived in for so long.

Many of the people he passed on the streets stared at his antique uniform, most however simply ignored him when they weren't cursing him for some reason or another. Wearing his old uniform made Nathan feel like an antique. Sometime soon he was going to have to update his wardrobe, possibly before he left Japan.

His granddaughter was smart, resourceful, and looking for a way to get to America without any questions. He had no doubt she was on her way already, having managed to smuggle herself off the island nation. He knew where she was heading though, just as he knew the person she was looking for; Sunnydale was the town and the man was Rupert Giles. The Watcher who had come looking to recruit Kela for some sacred war he was on the brink of fighting.

He had seen enough wars to know none of them were sacred.

Still it was possible he should have heeded Rupert's advice and gone with Kela to America. Maybe then those distorted monsters wouldn't have attacked his home. Maybe more of his family would be alive at this moment.

She was alone in the world.

He knew Kela was more prepared for it than he was. She had grown up in this modern area. Its technologies were as familiar to her as the horse was to him.

That aside though she had grown up in isolation from the world; in an environment where everyone was thoughtful and considerate and thought no more of harming you then you did them. She had no idea what people, outsiders, were like. Didn't understand that when these people looked at her they were measuring her, judging what they could get from her, get away with her, what the cost would be to them. Weighing the gain against the risk and if it…

A whirring buzz, like an air raid siren, exploded inside his skull. A chilled electricity hummed over his flesh while the short hairs along the back of his neck tried to stand on end; only his last hair cut had been several decades ago and they had grown too long in the interval.

He stopped in the middle of a crowded sidewalk; hunched over, left hand cupping the side of his head, over his ear, eyes squinting, trying by force of will alone to make the intrusive sensation to go away.

People bumped into him, jostled him, shoved him, attempting to get him out to their way. They shouted at him, cursed him, cursed his ancestors all the way back to the first monkey to ever jump out of a tree. "White, round eye, Yankee dog," was the gentlest epitaph hurled his way. Most were much more inventive and colorful than that.

He was aware of it all the same way he was aware of the sun high overhead, the air all around him.

None of it mattered to him, not the sun, not the air, and most definitely not the people.

Hours passed in an icy haze.

Nathan knew it couldn't have been more than a handful of seconds. Time had stretched out and compressed all at once.

As quickly as it began, it ended.

The world snapped back.

He staggered to the side clutching for breath. His eyes scanned the crowd as he leaned against the side of the building. He could feel eyes upon him.

Then Algren spotted him. A dozen yards away. There was nothing special about him. Nothing that distinguished him from anybody else in the throng of people. Except he knew it was him. That they were alike, the same. That everybody else was somehow less. While they moved, he watched him with the intensity of a hawk circling a rabbit.

He was a young looking man, in his early twenties. His blond hair flowed behind him like a lion's mane. With his white blazer, pale blue button-down shirt that was open almost to his solar plexus, and white slacks made him look… Slick, he believed the term was. At lease it had been the last time he watched television; the show was called, "Miami Vice".

The man smiled generously, gave Algren a mock salute before ducking into an alley, and disappearing down it.

Nathan gathered himself and followed the stranger into the alley. Halfway down the passageway a heavy steel door swung shut with a solid thunk.

The alleyway was sparse, a few crates and pallets; a bit of litter, newspapers and wrappers covered the ground; a quartet of large green dumpster line the back wall at sporadic intervals.

There were always reasons for setting a trap and this had the distinct feel of one. Only he didn't know what for?

Curiosity outweighed caution and he pulled the door open and plunged into the darkness beyond.

The building were so tall that even with the door open there wasn't the slimmest sliver of light allowed in.

Ladders and scaffolding had been set up. Sheet rock, drywall, and prefabricated ceiling tiles had been laid out. Other supplies were scattered in an orderly fashion. As if a work crew had been here, set up for the day, and then… left.

_Trap_. He could hear Katsumoto's whisper in his ear.

He moved deeper into the building. Following…

He wasn't sure what he was following. His gut maybe? Some other internally instinct?

He didn't know.

All he did know was that the man was inside this building. Somewhere in the direction he was heading.

He passed through several more partially finished rooms before he came to a heavy fire door. It had been propped open with a small wedge of wood.

_Trap_.

Algren pushed the door open slowly, peering into a stairwell that ran both up and down. Since he was on the ground floor he could assume down led to a parking garage. Stepping all the way into the stairwell he looked up trying to see if there was anything suspicious above him.

Not seeing anything he moved toward the stairs heading down.

A door click shut with a solid thwich from somewhere up above him.

_Trap_.

_Somebody wants us to go up_, he answered the voice.

He gazed up the stairs once more. He could walk away. The way back, the way he had come, was clear.

That way there were no answers.

Sweat made his shirt feel sodden. As if he had taken a bath in the thing after marching thirty miles over rough terrain in half a day.

His foot touched the steel reinforced concrete…

And nothing happened. No anvil had been dropped on his head. The building hadn't suddenly exploded.

Nothing.

It took Algren almost ten minutes to climb the four flights of stairs. He was moving with an obscene amount of caution, making sure he didn't overlook the smallest clue that might have been left behind.

Whether discarded deliberately or accidentally dropped.

Dragging the time out would also have the added benefit of making his advisory impatient. If he was good, this little bit of showmanship wouldn't faze him in the slightest. If he wasn't, if he let the forced tension eat at him then the chances of him making a misstep at the crucial moment were in his favor.

Nathan almost kept going, but the glint of steel by the door drew his eyes. He knelt down and picked up a small key, the kind used on padlocks, a small padlock.

_Trap_! Katsumoto's voice screamed in his ear.

He jerked around just in time to see the man lunge down the stairs at him with a soundless roar. A Spanish styled broadsword drawn, the sharp point aimed at where his heart had been.

Fast as he was Algren was faster.

A hundred plus years training snapped into place.

His mind just fell away.

The instant slowed down to snail's pace. Everything happened with crystal clarity.

He swung his duffle bag around as he surged up to meet him. The bag knocked the sword aside as he began to pivot; his right hand grabbing the boy's right wrist in a crushing grip as he threw his hip into the boy's pelvis lifting him off his feet.

They flew the rest of the way to the landing and crashed through the heavy door. Algren made sure the boy bore the brunt of impact.

Algren's left elbow smashed into his face at almost the same time the back of his head bounced off the floor. There was a satisfying crunch of bone.

He rolled backward landing in a low crouch and had to jump back as the boy's sword reached out toward him. Clearing space so he could hastily climb to his feet.

With blood covering the lower part of his face he didn't look so slick anymore.

"You broke my nose!" He grated through gritted teeth.

Algren crocked an eyebrow at him. "You ambush me? Then complain when I defend myself? For the youth of America, I surely do hope you aren't the rule, but rather…"

"Ah!" The boy came at him with a roar, slashing low in an attempt to spill his guts all over the floor.

Algren skipped back smoothly as the sword whispered past him. With an underhanded toss he hurled his duffel bag at the boy's legs.

The bag tangled in his legs. Algren stepped forward, his right hand grabbed the boy's forearm, his fingers dug into cable like muscle.

The boy grunted as he caught himself. He threw a right cross.

Algren caught his wrist, stepped inside, and twisted.

The boy flipped over. Air exploded from his lungs when he smashed into the floor.

Algren continued to twist as he dropped to the floor, slamming a solid knee into the back of the boy's neck and right side of his chin; pressing the left side of his face into the unforgiving linoleum. Algren twisted hard on his arm wrenching his shoulder painfully.

The sword clattered to the floor.

Algren's other knee smashed into the boy's kidney forcing the boy to support the majority of his weight.

He grunted in pain, grasped for breath but couldn't get any oxygen. Algren's shin was pressing into his throat cutting off the flow of air.

Algren frowned. He had the boy trapped, disarmed and disabled. Now he had to decide what to do with him. "Normally a man tries to kill me, I leave them lying in a pool of their own blood-"

The boy tried to say something, but it came out a garbled mess.

Algren rapped him on the back of the head. "I didn't say you could talk," he admonished. "Where was I… Right… pool of their own blood, but you're like me? Death doesn't stick so well with the likes of us. I'm interested in why. You're going to tell me… If, when we're done…"


	3. Chap 3: Bad Rain

Chapter Three: Bad Rain

Cold was the first thing he remembered. A numbing cold that bit deep in his bones. On its heels came the need to fill his starving lungs with oxygen. His first breath was a desperate gasp, like finally bursting through the ocean surface after diving too deep.

The air was the finest banquet, a seven-course meal with all the entrees, side dishes, and trimmings. He had never tasted anything so fine, so sweet.

He exhaled and sucked in another breath, this one slower, deeper… Steadier. His eyes took in his cavernous surroundings with quick, furtive glances. This place was as familiar to him as his own…

The thought stopped with the abruptness of a lightening strike in a dead calm sea as the last few moments came back to him.

_He had taken aim on Elizabeth, she was a fine looking lass, but tricksom and cunning and full of fine morals. A year at sea with nothing but her wits to see her through the day would learn her right quick._

_A report rang out, only he hadn't fired._

_**Sparrow**. The thought was a worm borrowing through his brain. What would it take to kill the man? "Ten years you carry that pistol and now you waste your shot?" Sarcasm was heavy in his voice, but he didn't understand why Sparrow would use it now. No matter what he personally thought of Sparrow, Jack wasn't stupid. In fact he was exceedingly… not smart, but creatively brilliant._

_His own style was hammer something until he finally smashed it to pieces. Jack was far more apt to arrive at a vestal virgins home, explain to her mother and father his less then honorable intentions and depart with aforementioned virgin, not just with the father's blessing, but with his wife as well._

"_He didn't waste it," Will Turner's voice resonated within the cavern. It was hard, but full of brash swagger and morality._

_It was a voice that reminded him far too much of Turner's father, good old Boot Strap Bill Turner, when he tried to call him down for his mutiny. That was when he decided to send good old Boot Strap to the depths. He was going to enjoy slitting the whelp's throat when all was said and done. It would be one of his greatest pleasures._

_He turned, looking up at the carved chest that sat atop the rock outcropping. Blood glistened off the stone blade, Turner's left fist hovered over the medallion filled chest. There was a look of supreme satisfaction etched into the young man's face._

_Realization dawned on him as Turner's fist opened, spilling out the blood covered medallions. He felt wetness and tore at his coat._

_He felt._

_For the first time in a decade he felt something._

_His white shirt darkened with blood._

_Forgotten warmth quickly fled his body. The cold seeped in, his body felt like artic ice. "I feel cold." There was surprise in his voice. Of all the experiences he thought he would have once the curse was lifted, dieing was not among them._

That was exactly what happened. He died. He didn't remember being dead, but he remembered dieing. He remembered waking.

And…

He felt the warmth, the life flow back into his body, seep into his limbs.

…he remembered the green apple he had been holding throughout his fight with Sparrow.

Shifting his position, he sat up slightly, leaning on one elbow. The apple had rolled a short distance down the gentle slope.

He took in the familiar cavern, the dregs of immeasurable wealth lay scattered about him. Himself, Sparrow, several others before them, had amassed the fortune, raiding coastlines and pillaging the high seas and depositing their ill gotten loot within this cave.

The Aztec gold had been here when Sparrow first brought him here. As far as he knew it had always been here.

He suspected Cortez himself put it here and then had the Island enscrolled so nobody would be able to find it again. After living the curse for nearly half a score of years he could well imagine going to such lengths to ensure it was lost forever.

How it was found again remained a mystery that Sparrow, either didn't know, or wasn't telling. All he knew, learnt when he had been Jack's trusted second, was that the gold was there and the legend of it. The legend of the Aztec gold and Cortez's greed. The same legend he told Elisabeth when he thought she had been Turner's child.

He hadn't believed it then, but his folly, in some ways, had been his greatest boon. Near a decade he plundered the seas with impunity. The wealth gathered around him made him one of the richest men in the world and best of all, he no longer had to divvy it up with an entire crew of black hearted cutthroats.

It was his and his alone.

So long as he could remove it before Sparrow.

The thought of Sparrow returning to the Isle only to find it had been looted clean put a genuinely cruel smile on his face. It stayed there for a moment and then vanished as if it never had been.

They had left him for dead, only that wasn't quite right. He had been dead so they left him. Only now he wasn't dead.

He wondered if the curse had actually been lifted or not. Small lumps and jagged ridges jutted out of the floor, poking at him through his clothes. The air was thick and damp, which was something he never noticed before.

Still there was only one thing that would satisfy him. He reached over and plucked the apple off the cavern floor. It was hard, yet pliant, its skin was mostly smooth but there were little nicks and bumps in the surface. His fingers moved slowly, mesmerized by the rich texture, memorizing the contours. A soft, orgasmic groan filled the air. His face was a mask of pure rapture.

It was everything he had dreamed it would be and so much more, a slow all consuming burn that quickly overwhelmed his entire being, drowned out his sense of self. It was being made love to by an expert of pure sensual passion, skilled in torturing with slow pleasure.

Unable, unwilling to contain himself any longer, he lunged forward, biting through the skin, sinking his teeth into the wet meat buried under. Juices spilled out, sliding down his chin, dripping to the cavern floor. His teeth gnashed the meat to a juicy pulp.

Nothing had ever tasted so sweet before, his mouth was alive with flavors. Every bite was an explosion of long forgotten sensations.

In less time then he thought possible the apple was gone, devoured, core and all. He licked the juices from his fingers. It left him feeling oddly satiated, yet craving so much more.

He pushed the disquieting feelings aside. There was much that needed to be done.

Less then half an hour was all it had taken to verify that he was, in fact, quite alone. That fact proved what he already knew, they had left him for dead.

A sudden thought dawned on him, if everyone thought him dead then this would be the perfect opportunity for him to completely reinvent himself. Oddly though, or maybe not so oddly, the idea didn't appeal to him.

He was Caption Barbossa. Scourge of the seven seas, feared throughout the known world. The price on his head was more then all the gold in China. When someone killed him, by all the gods were they going to pay for their impudence.

That, was an idea that appealed to him very much. Soothing that would make the hardest heart laugh and cry by turns. The brave and self-sacrificing William Turner, the lovely Elizabeth the girl was perhaps as crafty as Sparrow.

His smile turned vicious at the thought of the man. Nothing in this world would bring him more pleasure then watching him die. Slowly, by inches if possible, at his hands. Drawing out Sparrows suffering.

There were any number of row boats filling the island's small cavern harbor. This time they all even had their oars. He loaded one boat up with as much loot as he thought it could hold, then added a bit more. After rigging up a make shaft mast and rudder he set off.

There was no food on the island, there had never been any reason for them to store provisions. At least not anything that could be eaten.

Time on the boat had no meaning. There was day and night. Dark and light. He spent most of the voyage in a weak, starvation induced daze. He would dose, never reaching true sleep, deep hunger kept him from it.

No matter how often he wished for it, death wouldn't take him. His body refused to die, that was his body refused to die before he shot himself through the heart.

Then he died just fine.

And he woke up some interment time later, it could have been minutes it could have been days, there was no way for him to tell.

His hunger wasn't gone, but it was less. For a time it was less, but all too soon it grew again.

If he was a cannibal, he supposed things would have been just fine; a bit of arm at midday, a slice of leg for supper, and if he got hungry during the night, he could satisfy himself with some finger snacks.

He didn't follow the practice, but he was sorely tempted. More so then he ever thought he would be, but he was Catholic, and while it had been a good many years since he attended Sunday service, without pilfering the poor box or emptying the clarity plate, his beliefs still held firm.

Eventually he made landfall along the African coast. He managed to catch himself dinner, find himself a source of fresh water. After several days getting fat off the land he made his way down the coast to Cape Town. The port had grown significantly since the last time he had put in there a dozen years before.

With the small amount of treasure he managed to liberate he set himself up quite nicely. The name Barbossa was too well known in this part of the world, Russell Gordon served him well enough.

It was on his second night in the Dutch port that he finally found out what he was, why he didn't die. Didn't stay dead at any rate.

He would never forget the experience.

He had been living quite large on his wealth. There wasn't anything in the town he couldn't have and he was taking full advantage, food, wine… women. The best that there was and more of it then any man had a right to.

It was the most exhilarating, terrifying… His entire body felt alive. It hummed. His head felt too small, it was bursting with… He didn't know… It was about to explode.

Then he saw him. A tall fellow, with straight golden brown hair. He had the face of a walrus, with red puffed out cheeks a heavy mustache and eyebrows that drooped dangerously low. His teeth seemed too large for his distorted face. His body appeared too small for his face, or his face was too large for his body.

It was hard to tell which.

As quickly as it began it ended.

Or almost ended.

He was still aware of the man. Intimately aware of him, like he was somehow inside him, inside his head.

It was intrusive.

Barbossa didn't like it.

He remained lounged in the plush crescent shape sofa, his hand resting under, cupping the succulent backside of a young slave girl he purchased the previous day. Her head rested against the pale skin of his chest, it was a striking contrast. She was quite talented for such a tender age, well schooled in giving pleasure.

Even so, she wasn't capable of pacing him. Three hours and she was worn out, while he was fresh as the dew on a cool spring morning. He felt energized despite his weekend of debauchery.

"New to the game and thinks he's cock roster in the hen house." The man's accent was heavy, but Barbossa couldn't place it.

"You seem to have me at a minor disadvantage matey," Barbossa's reply sounded anything but ill at ease.

The man smiled, a lusty grin that lit up his ruddy complexion. "No need to worry, not yet anyway."

Curiosity etched its way into Barbossa's brow. He sat up a little straighter, found himself giving the man a trifle more attention. "You know something?"

The man picked up a decanter, sloshed the contents around gently before filling a goblet with the dark fluid. Lifting the silver chalice he said, "A great many things," before taking a long pull of the robust liquor. His answer was slow, cryptic. It was full of hidden meanings.

Barbossa slapped the girl's naked ass with force rousing her from a restful slumber. She didn't move quite fast enough to suit Barbossa as he shoved her. She landed on the thickly carpeted floor with little protest. "Go, tidy my room," he ordered. Adding a not too ungentle nudge with his bare foot to get her moving.

The stranger watched the girl go with barely contained lust in his eyes. Her ebony skin glistened in flickering candlelight as she gingerly made her way across the cluttered floor. "When an elder discovers one like you, it's customary for them to explain the rules."

"The rules?"

"I know a place we can talk privately. Safely,"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Immortal," Barbossa whispered in quiet disbelief. They were standing in the center of the graveyard Franklin Bordon had brought Barbossa to. His gaze hardened as he took the man's measure, truly seeing him for the first time. "So long as we keep our heads?"

"Holy ground is our only sanctuary," Bordon inserted once again.

"Where we can't kill one another," Barbossa said, confirming that he had indeed been listening. "Why tell me this? You could have taken my head whenever you wanted?"

"What honor would be gained in that?" He sounded scandalous, as if someone said he enjoyed the feel of a man's callused hands on his naked flesh.

"What honor indeed?" Barbossa replied. A generous smile suddenly split his face. He stepped forward extending his right hand, "Then I am surely in your dept."

Bordon took the offered hand, his own smile made his face appear almost open. "You won't be saying that next time we meet."

Barbossa squeezed hard, his pistol nestled gently under Gordon's right arm. His smile remained friendly as he said, "Good thing we'll never meet again."

For a heartbeat shock lit Bordon's face before it turned to a mask of rage. "You can't…"

The rapport rang out in the darkness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The DC-10, Future Glory, bucked slightly as it hit a rough patch of turbulence. Lightening flashed in the high altitude. Rain pelted the metallic hide of the aircraft. Wind pushed them this way then that way without much rhyme or reason. It wasn't the worst storm he has ever flown through, but it was bad enough. Future Glory wasn't the most expensive plane in his fleet, but it was his personal favorite, it had character and like Han Solo, he had won it in a card game.

Her presence drew nearer breaking Barbossa out of his memories. That he felt it at all was a surprise to him. At times it vanished almost completely, no more significant then a mouse hiding in the shadows. Other times it was a lion, great and prideful, luxuriating in its power, chaffing, straining against its chains.

Barbossa found it strange. He found her strange, wished he had never accepted her deal, not that he ever planned on honoring their agreement. She would fetch quite a price even if his plan had to be altered slightly since their relationship had changed.

The girl was smart and intuitive. She had a sense of things that he had rarely seen before. A few psychics he's encountered over the years, the truly sensitive ones. A couple of witches, powerful witches at that.

And a couple of anomalies, all girls, all about the same age as Kela. He didn't remember any of them possessing her uncanny self-possession.

She had a way of staring at people, like there was nothing else in the world except for you or like you didn't exist. It was hard to tell between the two, if there was a difference.

Kela entered the cabin silently, there was no door. She had removed it shortly after boarding the aircraft, shortly after Barbossa had tried to betray her. It was a good thing she hadn't trusted him, had stayed on her toes around him.

Barbossa didn't like her, the fact she had thwarted his attempt, defeated him in combat with ease did little to endear her to him. Not that she cared what he thought of her.

"How long?" It wasn't a question, so much as a demand for information.

"Not much longer lassie," he told her. His client hadn't been happy about the change in plans, but they were extremely interested in his cargo.

How he hated dealing with telepaths.

Communicating with one was like having snakes slithering around under his skin, not that he had anything against snakes. Some of his closest friends, not that he had many, would be considered, sort of reptilian by most people's standards.

You never knew what secrets they were sifting through, what part of your past they were rummaging around in.

Once this was over he would have to change all his passwords and security codes. He did the same after every telepathic conversation, although he wasn't sure what good it ever did him. For all he knew they could still be in his head.

Kela didn't like the answer. She found it wasn't an answer. He was so smug, as if he were still in control. "When?" Her voice was even harder then before, hardened steel frozen in a lake of ice.

Barbossa grimaced. He was going to make sure she paid. "Two hours."


End file.
